Home

Earth is my home.

My house is in the forest, flowers, and trees

It is in laughter with friends,

And secrets shared between lovers.

It is in fireflies and tents of carelessly strewn sheets.

My home is in the wind, and the shifting of its breeze.

It is not singular,

Or defined by a maps outline of a land's form, 

Or by the names of spaces that man may create.

My home is in people,

And very few cherished things.

It can't be watered down to one stripped flag,

Or contained in one place's anthem like song.

My home is in people,

Though I may not live where they dwell.

My home is in life and life after death.

It's not in territories and lines that can't be crossed.

My home is not limited so as to forget,

That we are all made of earth 

My home is in bodies and spirits and souls,

Souls that I would never betray,

Not for a treaty, not for a war, not for anything that may exist.

And it all seems too surreal,

To live in a home made of people.

And it all seems unworldly to want peace and to believe,

That we do not have to fight.

But I think you have to live, not in the world that you glimpse

But in the world, you wish to achieve.

So my home is in people,

No country or nationality could make me forget,

That today I may want to fight this war,

But only because of where I was born.

Never realizing that the man I claim to hate,

His motivations are close to me,

For we are the same.

My home is in people and those people are in me.

And in their differences, it's myself that I behold.